A Court of Steel and Bonds
by IllyrixnWingspxns
Summary: The Illyrian camps are not pleasant, particularly for the females. Especially for the females who want to fight. Draego, a male in the camp, is wracked with guilt from the memories he has. Particularly, of Coila's wing-clipping. It was her worst day, yet there are worse still to come. But she will have her sword, and she will have her vengeance. And she intends to do it alone.


The Weaver's cottage was just as pretty-looking as it'd been when I'd visited it three decades ago.

There, the stones around its rim arranged in an artful fashion sat the well I had nearly fallen into in my pain. And behind it, a pathway leading to the door, stood the small building that was her home. I glanced up at the trees towering over me, the branches forming a natural cage to make it difficult to fly out of. Difficult, I thought, rustling the dark wings at my back, but not impossible.

My grip tightened on the Illyrian hunting knife in my palm. I thought about who I was doing this for, recalling her wild nature, her screams of terror as her wings had been clipped. As a male, I was glad I would never have to have to go through the same. As a male, still with wings I could fly with, I could retrieve what had been stolen from her.

The single Siphon on my hand shone green as I took another step towards the cottage, my round ears detecting the faint sounds of the Weaver's singing. I glanced again at the knife in my hand, hoping that she wouldn't detect it the way she'd sensed the other swords I'd brought with me the last time I'd been here. The last time I'd come to take back what was hers.

I approached the door on silent feet, my chest constricting as I glanced up once again to see the hair of the roof draped over the doorway. I ducked under it, offering up a silent prayer to the Cauldron, and my eyes locked on the scuffed concrete of the threshold. Like many pairs of feet had passed over it, always heading one way: in.

The Weaver's voice was clearer now, and honeyed. Beautiful. But I remembered from last time just how hideous she was, with her sunken, unseeing eyes and black hair. My heart had been full of terror as she'd chased me, roaring loud enough to send the birds into the sky in a quarter-mile radius, and I'd been unable to fly right away due to the dense forest all around. Yet now, somehow, the branches _had_ shifted enough. Some had fallen in a storm, or been broken by a savage beast. Whatever had done it…there was a gap now big enough to fly through.

It was what'd hindered me all these years, in the time since her wings had been clipped. She'd wept on the day she'd lost it, wept hard enough that I'd felt as if I was being cracked wide open—

I blocked out the memory, reminding myself of the concentration I needed. Gripping the knife still harder, I took my first step inside the Weaver's cottage.

" _A lover's kiss, as sweet as dew…_ "

She sung, her voice melodic and entrancing. I ignored her, heading deeper into the house, my eyes scanning the shelves and shelves of objects.

" _It will not be enough, no, never for you…_ "

A thousand knives, a thousand weapons— but nothing. Not the thing I sought. My nostrils flared as I sniffed, hoping in vain to detect some long-ago trace of her on it.

" _If you want her truly, the thing you must do…_ "

Searching still, I glanced to the Weaver. Her back remained to me, her hands still working the threads of her loom. I quickly looked away, and took another step towards the shelves.

" _Is never swear your heart, or a piece of you._ "

My heart stopped in my chest. There, on one of the highest shelves, was what I sought. A cascade of memories threatened to drown me as I remembered it, remembered giving it to her, remembered her using it and all the times I'd seen it at her side.

The swords would be too heavy, the camp Lords had said to her. But she had ignored them. Being female, she'd been unable to go into the camp proper and find a sword for her own. So at her polite request, I had gotten one for her.

They'd taken it on the same day they'd taken her ability to fly.

" _So when friendship does strike, swift as her blade…_ "

I reached up, my hand inching towards the sword, the carvings along the steel glinting in the light from the lone window in the wall.

" _Her love will be yours, her entire heart made._ "

I glanced one final time at the Weaver, who seemed to have finished her song. I'd blocked out the words, the warning bells peeling in my head. Now I was here, the sword a hairs-breadth from my fingers.

She started singing again, unaware that I was still here. Her voice was still soft, and beautiful, but there was a new element to this melody that spoke of decay. It was sorrowful, reminding me of dead things and burned bodies on a pyre.

So I took the sword. The Weaver's voice halted, and I turned to watch the door begin to swing shut on its hinges—

I darted to it, swift as an asp, wings tucking in tight to squeeze through—

But I was too bulky, my shoulders too broad in my flying leathers. I shifted, and almost roared in pain as my wings scraped against the wooden frame of the door, splinters lodging in the membranes.

I heard the Weaver's voice again, sensed her rise from her place at the loom. But it was the voice of another, the sounds of her screams of pain as she was tied to those posts in the camp, that had my Siphon flaring with green light.

The front door of the Weaver's cottage shattered, and I burst free, ignoring the splinters in my wings, sprinting from the door to the forest clearing. I sheathed her sword along my spine, right between my wings on my back which flared as I crouched—

And then the Weaver's hands were on me, clutching my arms in a vice-like grip. I thrashed, shouting, and she roared louder. But her voice was silenced as she opened her jaw wide, and then clamped her teeth down on my hand.

Pain overtook me, and I hollered loudly enough to send birds taking to the skies. As the seconds lengthened, I felt more than my blood leave me— I felt tired, like my energy was being sucked right from me. The Weaver's tongue flicked over the back of my hand, rough and dry as sandpaper where she bit me.

I flared my wings wide and launched straight for the skies, joining the birds.

The Weaver still clung on, her hands now gripping my short dark hair. I flapped my wings again, trying to dislodge her as she hung from my front, aiming for the slight gap in the trees that was my exit from the clearing—

I wasn't high enough.

But it worked in my favour.

The Weaver barked in pain as her back scraped against the tops of the tree branches, as her clothing snagged on the sharpest of them and she was torn from me. Her cry of pain and fury echoed into the silent forest as she tumbled to the earthen floor, leaving me to soar free.

I shot across the sky, a dark blur in the daylight, heading back for the Illyrian war camp. Back to her.

I allowed myself to feel the triumph of this victory, to feel the relief at finally getting what she wanted after these long years.

I couldn't wait to hear my name on her lips, her thanks.

"Draego," she would murmur, when I found her in her tent, bringing her what she desired.

And I would answer, "Yours," with a roughish grin that would bring a smile to her face.

She wouldn't know that I didn't mean the sword. That I meant me, my heart, my soul.

Her Mate.


End file.
